“Turn off that blasted machine! I can’t sleep because of you!” came the shout through the door.
Then came the pounding—someone hammering at the flat and jabbing the doorbell relentlessly. Emily flinched, dropping the remote. Alex stirred irritably beside her.
The bedside lamp cast a dim glow. Outside, the stifling summer heat pressed in like a damp blanket. Emily threw on her dressing gown and made for the door.
A woman of about seventy stood there, thin-lipped and sharp-eyed, radiating disapproval. She wore a simple cotton dress and clutched a mobile phone in one hand.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Emily asked, keeping the door firmly shut. She was uneasy.
“Margaret Whitaker! I live below you. That infernal racket above my ceiling is keeping me awake. Turn it off at once, or I’ll ring the constabulary! Noise at this hour is unacceptable!”
Emily tried to speak, but Margaret barrelled on without pause.
“Honestly, the nerve of some people! The entire building suffers because of you!”
“It’s not really that loud,” Emily ventured carefully. “We had the window open to check.”
“Loud enough to rattle my nerves and set my heart racing! Turn it off!”
“Fine, we’ll switch it off,” Emily conceded reluctantly. “We didn’t realise it was bothering anyone.”
“Well, now you do,” Margaret snapped.
The sharp click of heels faded down the hallway.
Emily returned to the bedroom and shut off the air conditioner. She threw open every window, but the muggy air hung thick and unmoving. Alex tossed and turned before finally retreating to the shower, while Emily lay staring at the ceiling.
This wasn’t how they’d imagined their first summer in their own flat.
They’d bought the two-bedroom place just months ago, eager to leave behind the rented horrors of last summer—the buckets of tepid water, the futile cross-breezes, the fan that only stirred the hot air around. The mortgage had made Emily’s hands shake, but at least now, they’d thought, no one could dictate how they lived.
Turns out, someone still could.
The next morning, Emily ran into another neighbour, Natalie, in the lift. They’d already struck up a friendly acquaintance, even helping her fix a leaky tap once.
“Listen, Nat,” Emily leaned against the wall, “we had the air con on last night, and someone complained. Is it really that noisy?”
Natalie raised a brow.
“Let me guess. Margaret Whitaker?”
Emily nodded.
“Ah, she’s forever at it. The telly’s too loud, my boy laughs too much. Once she claimed our cat jumped too heavily. We’ve learned to ignore her. She phones up twice a month—manageable, really.”
Emily couldn’t help but smirk.
“Your cat? Seriously?”
“Oh yes,” Natalie confirmed. “We don’t even use the telly anymore—headphones only. Harder with the lad and the cat, though.”
Later, Emily bumped into James on the stairs. He had the exact same aircon unit, installed right beneath Margaret’s window.
“James, does she ever complain to you?”
“Never. Mine rattles something fierce, too. Mate reckoned it was fitted wrong. Guess she just likes me,” he chuckled.
“Does anyone else gripe about us?”
“Not a peep. You’re quieter than church mice—no kids, no drills, not even a dog.”
The neighbours’ answers did little to ease Emily’s mind. She turned the air con back on and listened through the open window. Barely audible.
So what was the real issue? Maybe it wasn’t about decibels at all. Maybe Margaret simply had it in for them—resented their presence, their comfort, their very existence. Some people were like that.
From the moment Margaret had first appeared at their door, their peaceful nights had unravelled. They’d set alarms for 22:59, racing to shut the windows before the hour struck. A minute late, and the rapping on the pipes would start. Five minutes, and she’d be at their door.
To combat the heat, they resorted to a fan by the window. It droned louder than the air con, yet Margaret never uttered a word against it.
They’d even called in a technician, playing the part of considerate neighbours. He’d fiddled with the outdoor unit.
“Adjusted the mountings and added some padding for noise,” he’d said. “But honestly, it’s whisper-quiet already. Can’t make it any quieter—wouldn’t bother anyway.”
Emily had smiled in relief. Surely now, they’d sleep undisturbed.
Two nights later, at 23:03, the phone rang.
“Are you running that machine again?” Margaret’s voice was shrill. “My walls are shaking! My blood pressure’s through the roof!”
“We had it checked. The technician said it’s near silent. We’ve done all we can—”
“Your man doesn’t have to endure it at night! Switch it off, or I’ll have the constable on you!”
Alex sighed and powered it down. They slept to the fan’s dull whir once more.
Gradually, Emily noticed Margaret wasn’t exactly a saint herself. Her phone calls—often late—were ear-splitting.
“Call yourself a daughter? Only time you ring is when you want money!” she’d shriek. “Everyone’s abandoned me! Everyone!”
Emily tried to ignore it, but the outbursts left her unsettled. It was like being dragged into someone else’s misery.
One sleepless night, lying under a thin sheet, she remembered how she’d once drifted off to the hum of drills and distant music—not loud, but there.
They’d never once complained. They knew flat living meant tolerating others. Everyone inconvenienced someone, a little. Yet they managed.
Everyone except Margaret.
Late August brought a brutal heatwave. When Emily’s parents invited them to their countryside cottage, they packed in an hour. The country air was crisp. Yes, there’d be sweat and labour under the sun, but no nagging neighbour.
The evening was golden—corn on the cob, laughter, the only debate being whether to barbecue lamb or fish the next day.
At half-one in the morning, Alex’s phone buzzed. He squinted at the screen, then swore under his breath.
“Her again?” Emily whispered.
“Who else?”
“For heaven’s sake, what now?”
Emily sat up, pulse quickening. Had a pipe burst? Was Margaret wading through their flat?
Alex answered on speaker, bracing for battle.
“Hello?”
“Are you mocking me?!” Margaret’s voice was hoarse with fury. “That machine’s on again! I haven’t slept a wink!”
Alex paused. Emily scanned the cottage room. No, they were definitely not home.
“Mrs. Whitaker… we’re not even there. We’re in the countryside. The flat’s empty. Everything’s off.”
“Don’t lie! I can hear it! If I drop dead, I’ll sue the lot of you!”
Emily bit back a retort—what use was reasoning with a hurricane? Margaret ranted another thirty seconds before the call cut off.
Alex exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face.
“Even here, she finds us.”
“Alex, she’s unwell. It’s not about us.”
“Knowing that doesn’t help.”
In the morning, Emily’s mother drove into town for a doctor’s appointment. Emily asked her to swing by their flat on the way back.
Mum called from the doorstep.
“Love, it’s dead silent. Just the fridge humming—and only if you press your ear to it.”
“Right. So it’s not the air con.”
That realisation sat heavier. A grouchy neighbour was one thing—an unstable one was another.
Worse, it stung. They’d lost sleep, endured headaches, called technicians, even debated buying a new unit. They’d been polite, accommodating. And for what? To appease someone unappeasable?
“Em, she’s tormenting us,” Alex said as they packed for home. “I’m blocking her number. And disabling the doorbell.”
Emily nodded. “Me too. Anyone urgent can knock. And no answering the door after ten.”
The relief was instant—like shrugging off a weight. No more explanations, no guilt. The cool nights were theirs again.
For days, they felt like trespassers in their own home. Margaret rapped at the door nightly, shouting, muttering curses.
“Open up! I’ll fetch the constable! Youth today—no respect!”
On the third night, another neighbour confronted her.
“Enough! The whole floor hears you! Pipe down, or I’ll ring the police myself!”
Margaret vanished like smoke.
A week later, a constable visited for a statement—though his tone suggested it was mere protocol.
“Try to humour her. Elderly, difficult temperament,” he said, almost apologetically.
No more disturbances followed.
Emily and Alex still minded their noiseThey left the air conditioner on that night, and for the first time in months, slept soundly—no knocks, no calls, just the quiet hum of comfort.
